A Game of Dolls and Princess
by Fanless
Summary: The Endowed have fallen. Only one is left to rule the Academy, and her name is Yolanda Yewbeam. Belle/Asa. For DotCiki.


For, of course, the most wondrous and prodigiously talented _Dot_, who never fails to dazzle—even without the help of glitter glue. (Sparkle factor!)

It came out as undoubtedly slightly flawed prose that wanders somewhat toward the end, but at heart this little story is actually a fancomic. Maybe I'll draw it someday… or perhaps someone way more talented will take up the mantle …

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_**A Game of Dolls and Princess**_

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* * *

Nobody much ever came to the old gray edifice. It sat alone in its shadowed corner of the city, mouldering and glowering like a child that even other children have learned to avoid, innocent as they are. Only vines ever dared to clasp its cold, blackened bones. When the wind blew, it sheared through the decaying teeth of the ruin walls like the hollowness of a hangman's noose. No one went there.

Yolanda liked it that way.

Ever since the castle had become hers—as was, of course, her right as eldest of the Yewbeams, wasn't it?—she had been left alone. The unendowed had been just intelligent enough (after a few pathetically failed attempts) to allow her free reign within the walls of what used to be Bloor's Academy. As long as she stayed inside the property, nothing could touch her; as long as she locked herself away, she was free.

Yolanda liked it that way. At least, she didn't mind. What cared she for the world outside? Too fast, too impatient, too raucous: a child's world, a rambunctious tomboy's world; and Yolanda had always been a shy, retiring girl. Not for her the slur of automobiles or the shriek of the streets. Yolanda was happy here, finally at peace, in a world of her own making.

That part—the making—had been quite enjoyable.

* * *

Yorath's and her seizing of the castle had not been unopposed. Ezekiel and his kin had fought valiantly enough. Interestingly, the others—the blood traitors, foolish rebels, prying meddlers—had fought too. Yolanda supposed they'd finally figured out their priorities. Much good it had done them in the end. She commended them for their show of spirit, though.

This pluck was really what had saved them. Yorath had wanted to disembowel each and every one of them, stuff their bodies with cotton and display them hanging from the battlements of the ruin, with Paton's carcass given special deference impaled on the top of the fountain. There was agreement from a bit of red and black deep in the crevices of Yolanda that could hardly be called her _mind_, but ultimately she sided with pragmatism and refinement.

The young and promising were retained. Yorath was allowed Paton and most of the adults, but the _real talent_ was hers. She intended to give them their due.

So instead of wholesale slaughter, she had brought them in one at a time. She had sat behind the desk that used to be Dr. Bloor's and bade them sit in a chair before her with a touch, just a touch of her hypnotizing gaze. Oh, at first they showed belligerence; some right away, some spurred on through desperation, but she was pleasant. She smiled, nodded, kept on talking, and _looked_ at them. _Looked_ at them with great gravity and purpose of will.

And one by one, the Endowed fell silent.

* * *

Yolanda was an old woman. She wished for nothing more than a little entertainment and someone to look after her.

In short, Yolanda Yewbeam was long overdue for her second childhood.

* * *

Now Princess Belle sits in her throne room, ruler of all she surveys, tea and tea-cake in hand. She keeps her pinky raised, as proper royalty always does.

Her ladies-in-waiting surround her. They wear unfussy yet elaborate uniforms in a tasteful palette of white, purple and black. The design hearkens back to the dress of her early childhood; she and Venetia put them together. Venetia has been a great help. She always was one of the sensible ones.

"More cake, Your Majesty?" asks Olivia. Her face is scrubbed of its more ludicrous makeup effects. Her hair is a reasonable color, its natural bread-brown. "More tea?"

"No, thank you," Belle says graciously. A princess never overindulges. "You are dismissed. Send in the gentlemen, if you please."

The girls bow. A pretty group, especially Naren and Zelda, so exotic and regal respectively. As the file out, the last to leave is little Una Onimous, who blows Belle a kiss. Belle pretends to catch it, beaming back at the sweet-faced babe.

It is so terribly nice a feeling to be loved.

The door remains open as the boys march in, gently regimented. Venetia has triumphed on their uniforms as well; they, too, are tricolor visions from the past. Manfred looks especially well in the color scheme; no different from what he usually wore, Belle reflects. They're all growing up so handsome and picturesque.

But she must remember herself. It is time for their orders. She is the princess, after all. "Billy, make sure no more rats have entered the kitchens during the night. Manfred, light the fires." It is the last beat of the heart of October now, leaves burning fiercely as the turning of the globe pulls their heat away. "Charlie and Gabriel, you may dust. Tancred, the wind blows dreadfully through our bedchamber; might you remedy that? Lysander, a little of the shrimp gumbo you cook so well would be so good for dinner tonight. Asa, you may stay."

The others make elegant legs and depart silently. Asa and Belle are the only glints of living color in the room, she a stem of gold, he a flicker of flame.

He bows, kneels. When Belle's touch on his shoulder bids him look up he is just in time to see her form finish stretching and flowing. A radiant lady stands before him, shining waterfall-ringleted, velvet-wrapped in night. She is alluring, a siren. Their eyes lock. Both feel the draw as Belle extends a delicate hand and raises him up like porcelain on a string; the inexorable gravity, ships on a sea washing slowly together, and Yolanda briefly wonders how much of it is witchery and how much is real, even whether the poor dear knows he's been bewitched.

* * *

A mirror in the hallway (leading to a more _intimate_ place) catches her eye. They pause as one; Yolanda looks in at her handiwork and the beauty of years gone by smiles arrogantly back, a regal figure in his new Prince-consort's finery (as dark a midnight blue as her own starry gown) by her side, fair and remote like the elven-folk of old. Asa looks taller now that he no longer hunches, hiding from the world; almost as tall as Manfred. They make a fine couple, she thinks (satedly, possessively): both slim and ivory. Pillars of moonlight in a barren grove of stone. Dark as dreams against white as cream.

"Like the poem," Asa says close to her ear. Yolanda did not realize she has been speaking aloud. " 'Ah, Maud, you milk-white fawn!' "

"Tennyson," murmurs Belle, turning to him, eyes still on the mirror. "He was a friend of the family, you know. I often think perhaps he got that image from seeing us shift and go roaming at night. He always denied it, of course."

"Why wouldn't he?" Asa leans nearer into her, brushing velvet against velvet. "If I were a poet, I'd never give away my inspirations. It would take the mystery out of it. The fun. And…" Two fingertips trace her neck's curve, the hollow of her bones. "If I had seen the beauty of a shapechanger by night… I'd want it my own secret forever."

Belle's lips bow into a smile. Because, of course, he has. And will, as long as she wishes.

"Shall I be your Maud, then?" she teases. "Would you like to ride a milk-white fawn, my love?"

His lips travel the veins on the back of her hand, hot-cold-hot. "Always and forever."

It is so pleasant to be worshipped.

* * *

Yorath enters the dining room and sprawls into a chair, the way he never used to when their family was young. Today he is a tree, or partly. There are leaves in his hair and twigs protruding from his arms. Perhaps he has been reading the book of Rackham plates again.

"Playing with your dolls as usual, my dear?"

Belle is sitting at the corner of the table, brushing Manfred's hair.

"Oh, Father, what else is there to do? Besides, they're still children, most of them. Children need their mothering."

"Even Pike? Strange idea of mothering, that."

Belle laughs. She likes Yorath in these crusty moods. "That's different. By the way, Father, did you know tonight is All Hallow's Eve?"

Yorath nods, momentarily with a grinning pumpkin head. "Mischief in the city tonight. Not all of it ours. I hear a few brats are planning to sneak into the ruins tonight."

Yolanda is aware. She is the one who indirectly suggested it to them—as Belle, of course. A little entertainment. "Oh, yes. What would you like to do to them?"

Yorath shrugs. Green shoots rise and fall from his shoulders. "Perhaps you'd like to help decide. I've a few ideas, but—you were always good at planning. I'm an action man, sweetie; always have been. So… perhaps a trap?"

Yolanda smiles, pulling the brush through Manfred's black locks. They shine like silk. He looks much healthier these days. All the boy needed was mothering after all. "Oh, yes. Several, to begin with, at least. And maybe a dragon."

Outside, the leaves swirl in their own ballroom dance. The grass is wet and the sky is gray, but that won't stop the city from lighting up tonight with the glow of countless candles, goblin-faces guttering. Tonight, demons and fantastic figures will stalk the streets, every one a masquerading soul hiding behind yet another mask. Tonight will be a night of frights both real and imagined, both in fun and in earnest, and which it is will depend on how the individual perceives it: existentialism, even in a decrepit pagan ritual.

And tonight, the mysterious witch in her creepy old castle will have a little fun.


End file.
